


On the Way Down

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Sibling Incest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2011-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters have been subjected to a lot of things in the name of hunting, but the result of a spell-gone-wrong on their latest case is still pretty high on Dean's weird scale. While their father is out searching for a way to undo the magic, Dean's stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, trying to deal with his bitchy teenage brother and his own increasingly un-brotherly feelings toward him. Who'd have thought Sammy growing a pair of giant bird wings would be the least of his problems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to novakev and larenoz over on LJ for the beta, as well as reapertownusa for the amazing art! Thanks also, as always, to my wingfic guru, gedry. This story would not have been possible without them.

Dean's pacing. Five strides across the room, five strides back. Five strides there, five strides back. Pacing's good, pacing's safe, pacing burns off the excess energy from the hunt and is an excellent method of focusing in on solving the problem at hand rationally without letting his emotions get the best of him. He skins a hand back through his hair and makes another circuit. Five there, five back. The smell of Sam's blood is still sharp where it's trapped under his fingernails.  
  


"Understood. We appreciate it. Thanks, Bobby," Dad says calmly into the phone. Like he's not freaking out at all about Sammy being passed out on one of the beds with a set of big freakin' bird wings sprouting out of his back, fanning out across the dingy motel carpet. His father hangs up the phone, the little bell inside dinging softly as the receiver finds the cradle.

Dean does his level best not to implode on the spot.

"Well?" he asks anxiously, about as much tact as he can muster at the moment. Sure this is Dad, but come on, it's _Sam_! _With wings_! _Big Freakin' Wings_!

"He's looking into it," his father replies easily, not rising to the bait. He knows why Dean's spazzing out, and a part of Dean that he kind of hates at the moment is thankful that one of them can be calm about this.

Sammy mutters in his sleep, head tossing just a little on the pillow, a limited range of motion from being stuck on his stomach. He's woken up a couple of times; long enough to prove that he's still all there, even if there happens to be a few extra parts to the set now.

Dean's done his best to clean up the ragged skin around the joints fused to Sam's spine, the place where the wings had suddenly burst free, not an hour before. The flesh is still inflamed, shiny with antibiotic cream, but there's no good way to bandage it, especially with the way Sam's wings - _Jesus!_ \- seem to randomly decide that they feel like moving too. The room still smells like gore and peroxide, an airborne reminder of something Dean couldn't avoid thinking about if he tried.

Dad can be as goddamn calm as he wants, Dean's not delusional - this is freaky as hell. Even with the stuff they see on a daily basis, this is way off the charts on the weird-o-meter. Fucking crazy people.

Why is it never the monsters who really screw them up? Always, without fucking fail, it's the dumbass, freakazoid _human beings_ who decide that casting a revenge spell sounds like fun or worshipping an ancient bird god is a good plan. Because killing people so you can 'ascend to the godly plane' makes total sense. Particularly when it turns out that the big reward of the godly plane is having enormous, brown-speckled wings. Yeah, there's a winner for ya.

Dean's startled out of his thoughts by Dad handing over a small slip of paper. Automatically, his mind memorizes the set of digits and the street name before he looks up questioningly at his father.

"It's a cabin," John explains matter-of-factly, crossing to the other side of the room to stuff the few scattered items into the duffels. "Friend of a friend owns it, it's got protections. Take Sammy there until we can figure out a way to get this thing reversed."

Dean knows enough to read between the lines; 'friend of a friend' equals hunter, 'we' equals Dad and somebody who isn't Dean or Sam. Something like gall rises up in him, maybe because Sam's still too knocked out to be pissed off on both of their behalves. Dean smothers it quickly with an affirmative nod, instantly relaxing now that he's got orders to follow, a direction to run in.

"Good," is all the response he gets and without a second thought, Dean pulls the Zippo out of his pocket and lights the small strip of paper on fire. Never leave a trail.

Now how the hell is he supposed to get Sam into the car?

***

It's like that time Sam got trampled by a phantom horse all over again. Everything above the waist burns like it's been set ablaze with each unconscious twitch of muscle. And those muscles are getting serious about their twitching, trembling with exhaustion each time he breathes. Worst though is the ache in his back, a kind of localized throb between his shoulder blades that he can't even bear to explore for the pain.

He remembers when it started; in front of the stone altar of Lamassu that the witch had set up. It had been stained red from the victims who'd been sacrificed, dried candle wax hanging from the edges like frozen rivers of blood, air still thick with incense. The witch had been running further back in the cavern, screaming out in frustration at his failed spell and Sam had run after him, Dad and Dean leading the way. He'd crossed through the circle of white candle wax layered around the altar, sneakers skidding on the dry, rocky soil as he ran full-throttle into a solid wall of agony. The white-hot flash of it ripped through him and for one dim second Sam was absolutely sure that he was being torn in two, this was the end, and then it had all gone black.

Well, obviously he'd been wrong about that being the end, although right now he's kind of wishing he hadn't been. He should probably be more worried than his is, but the sound of Bon Scott murmuring above the roar of the highway and the scent of gun oil and gasoline keeps him grounded, his instincts sated by the feel of the Impala. His groan sounds loud, even to his own ears and before he can do more than unstick his cheek from the seat, a hand – Dean’s hand, he can tell by the feel - lightly settles on his shoulder, tacitly holding him in place.

“It’s ok, Sammy,” his brother coos, and that, more than anything else, shoves Sam's warning scale from 'you need stitches' to 'your intestines are laying on the floor'. How bad is it if Dean’s pulling out his ‘comfort’ voice? “Just don’t try to move, alright?”

Slowly Sam forces his eyes open, the lids still so heavy with exhaustion he can barely keep them up long enough to focus his retinas. Dean’s arm is bent awkwardly over the back of the driver’s seat to reach him, so he must be laid out in the back. That also explains why his legs are all cramped up.

It looks like sometime around mid-day going by the light filtering in, and the line of trees zipping past the windows seems to be unbroken so they must be pretty far from their motel back in Oklahoma. He wonders how long he’s been out. It’s not until then that he notices a conspicuous absence.

“Dad?” he asks, a couple of dozen questions packed into the syllable.

“He’s fine,” Dean answers, glancing over the back of the seat to not-quite meet his eyes. Sam would almost swear his brother flinches looking at him. “He’s trying to figure out how to fix it.”

In a rush, Sam’s flooded with snippets of memory; hazy images of Dean and Dad leaning over him, bloody towels, stinging skin, feathers.

Dean nearly runs them off the road as Sam’s wings thrash over the back of the seat, only just kept in check by the stretch of a couple of ACE bandages wrapped around the span of them.

“Shit, Sam!” Dean yells, jerking the wheel sharply until the road beneath them evens out again. “Don’t freak out!”

“Don’t freak out! You think maybe that you should have led with that, Dean?”

Sam’s stuck in a kind of modified push-up position, back and arms aching with the strain of the added weight, unable to sit up or lean back because his freaking wings are in the way. His _wings_ are in the way. He's not sure whether to laugh or cry. All that ends up coming out is a high, broken sound like a guitar string snapping.

"It's going to be ok, Sammy," Dean says. It still sounds like 'your intestines are on the floor'. Kinda feels like it too. He doesn't remember much more than that before he blacks out again.

***

Getting Sam out of the car and into the cabin is about twelve times less fun that it was the other way around, even though Sam's awake now and supposedly helping. Dean has some doubts about that last part, but he trying really damn hard - he deserves a friggin' award over here - to keep from voicing them. Sam has always been a shitty patient when he doesn't get his way, flip-flopping wildly between clingy three year old and punk-ass bitch. And he sure as hell aint acting like a three year old right now.

His wings - soon, thinking that is not going to make Dean's stomach do the Electric Slide, but it hasn’t happened yet - kept getting hung on the frame of the car door, but every time Dean tried to hold them in so they wouldn't Sam would scream and the things would flail and they're going to have to buy some new ACE bandages after this because there's no way those suckers aren't shot to shit.

The stairs - because naturally, there had to be stairs - up to the front door are a special kind of hell that has Dean seriously this close to picking Sam up and carrying him bride-style. He'd swear he can feel every single wince and choked off whimper, every sweaty clump of hair sticking to his brother’s forehead in the wet June heat as Sam half-crawls up the steps. But of course, Sam won't let him help.

A few years back, Dean used to think wistfully - or, you know, whatever's the manly equivalent - of the day when his little brother would be old enough for them to hang out together like real guys; talk about the car, chase girls, find some cheap c-store and scam a couple of beers. It had never actually occurred to him that Sam would become a mega-buzzkill once puberty struck, with an added side order of fuck-off.

It's not like he wanted Sam tagging along after him forever or depending on him for every little thing or giving him that sad puppy look whenever he goes out like Sam doesn't know what to do with himself without Dean around. He didn't and he doesn't and he totally doesn't miss it at all. Especially not when Sam doesn't try to flatten him with a massive pounce of a hug every time he comes through the door because who wants to get tackled every freaking day, right? And definitely, definitely not now when Sam finally makes it through the front door and just stands there three steps inside the cabin, looking like he just climbed Everest on his hands and knees and still won't let Dean help take any of his weight. It's not because he misses it, ok? It's just that Sam's being an idiot so Dean has every right to be pissed off.

"There's no bed," Sam says dully, staring at the thin air a couple of inches in front of his face.

Dean hasn't really been paying attention up until now to anything but Sam, but a cursory glance around the place proves his little brother to be right. It's all one large room; a big living room with a fireplace and a TV so old there are dials on the front, a couple of couches and then a kitchen where the floor turns from beat-up wood to sheet linoleum, peeling at the edges. And a flight of stairs. Fuck. Really?

"I think it's..." is as much as Dean can actually voice, letting a half-hearted finger-point say the rest for him.

Sam's eyes following it are a little sluggish, but he gets there and Dean knows the second he does because Sam's crumpling toward the floor. If Dean wasn't as fast as he is - or, you know, wasn't hovering over Sam like a dark cloud - he wouldn't have a shot at catching his brother before he hits the ground. But he is and he does so the almost sob Sam lets out as soon as Dean's hands touch his back ends up muffled into Dean's shoulder.

"I'll just sleep here," Sam groans, rag-doll limp in Dean's arms even though he's obviously hurting. Just damn like him, too; hold out on his own until he's got nothing left. Couldn't just let Dean give him a hand.

"You're not sleeping on the floor, dumbass. C'mon."

His brother groans pitifully again, but starts to fumblingly try to take some of his own weight, feet skidding out from under him almost as soon as he gets them in place.

"No, hey, c'mon, just- Just hang on ok?"

He's not exactly sure that Sam gets it, but he figures instinct will take over as soon as Dean lifts him up off the ground. It does, of course, stupidly long legs wrapping around Dean's waist automatically, not much strength, but enough to keep him from being pure dead weight. What Dean's not expecting is the jolt that shoots through his own palms like he just grabbed hold of a live wire when he grips Sam's ass to lift him. Not like he's never touched his brother's butt before, not like there's even enough meat there to get excited over. Not that he'd be getting excited over Sam's butt regardless, because it’s Sam's and, _hello_ wrong. He probably just pinched a nerve or something. Still, he keeps his hands where they are because there's not much else to grip that doesn't seem to hurt Sam.

Again he's surprised by how little the wings actually add to Sam's weight. Sure, he definitely heavier, and the strain on his muscles to hold them up is obvious in the tight line of his shoulders, but it's a difference of maybe ten pounds - fifteen tops. In fact the length of them makes it a hell of a lot harder to lug Sam up the groaning stairs than the weight does.

Sam's face is hidden in the curve of his neck, like if he doesn't have to see Dean carrying him it won't be so embarrassing and all Dean can think is how many hours of his life he's spent carrying Sam up stairs - between all of the injuries and the hurried pack-ups, that one time last year when Sam snuck off to a party and got too plastered to stand and all the years Sammy was just too tiny to take the steps safely on his own. It's kind of ridiculous actually.

The bed upstairs is big, a bare mattress covered in a dust cloth that Dean rips off with moderate difficulty, trying to counterbalance his brother’s weight to free up an arm. It looks soft though, when he lets Sam down onto his feet for long enough to turn around and flop into it face-first.

Now for the hard part.

The sharp snick of Dean's pocket knife flipping open doesn't get so much as a flinch out of his brother which means he's either passed out again or he's too worn out to notice. Either way, it doesn't do much to make Dean feel better. The bandages are a lost cause by now so he doesn't feel too bad about cutting them off instead of fiddling with the knots that Sam's struggles have probably tightened beyond fixing anyway. The elastic falls limply at Sam's sides, feebly trying to snap taught before giving up the fight.

Sam's awake then because Dean can hear him cry out as the wings are freed, coming to rest on the bed on either side of him like a giant feather blanket. The breaths wracking his skinny chest are scattershot, ragged. Dean wants nothing more than to lay a comforting hand on Sam to quiet them but from the way Sam’s been reacting to every little touch, he guesses that would only make it worse. Instead he waits, fingers clenched tight enough at his sides that he's going to have perfect imprints of his own nails on his palms.

When his brother finally eases up, settling into a shivery sprawl of overworked muscle, he dares to get in closer, stepping in the splayed V of Sam’s legs hanging half off the bed still. This is the first good look he's had at the things sprouting out of Sam’s body since last night, and for a shock, it's what's missing that creeps him out more than what's there.

Last night Sam's skin looked like somebody took a hacksaw to it trying to carve the wings off of his body, a bloody mess of tagged skin and clotted-up feathers. He'd done what he could to clean him up and take care of him, but Dean was still figuring on some high dose antibiotics and enough painkillers to put down a rhino for days yet. He'd figured wrong.

The skin all around what he guesses would be called a joint where the wings meet Sam's body is bright pink and glossy like a fresh scar, smooth and perfect like Sam's been living with a couple of extra appendages sticking out of his back his whole life. Something slick and ice-cold trickles into Dean's gut and wriggles around just for kicks.

Ok, so it's not exactly like there's anything about this that he'd qualify as natural, but seeing the wounds just healed up like that when he can still feel the phantom heat of Sam's blood on his fingers is a special kind of terrifying he doesn't exactly know what to do with.

He needs to call Dad.

***

There are a couple of blessed moments when Sam first opens his eyes to the hazy brightness that's either late afternoon or early morning when he can't make heads or tails of what's going on. The bed he's lying in is comfortable, downy, tickling his nose a little with a lingering scent of dust that suggests both age and disuse. Age he's used to in the places they tend to bunk down, disuse is different. All he can see from this angle - he's on his belly, which is confusing because he hates to sleep facedown - is a wall paneled in rough amber wood, the kind that promises splinters if you run a hand down it. Trying to turn over to get a better look brings it all crashing back; the hunt, the pain, Dean, cabin, wings. _Wings_.

Like thinking about them wakes them up, all of a sudden the things on his back are moving, a bizarre stretch like flexing his arms but not, muscle protesting and achy. Immediately the one on the left crashes into the wall, knocking loose an old picture frame to shatter on the floor.

"Sam!" he hears from somewhere below and behind him, preceding the rushed clomp of booted feet on the stairs. "Sam!" his brother repeats, voice gruff like when he's trying to pretend he's not panicking.

"I'm fine," Sam lies because it's as close to the truth as he can manage. He isn't even sure where fine lives anymore.

It doesn't really matter because Dean's in the room now, climbing up onto the bed behind Sam. Presumably because Sam's wings are still blocking any other way to get up here.

"You sure?" Dean asks and Sam flinches on reflex when his brother's fingers meet bare skin at the top of his spine. It doesn't hurt, though, not the hot shooting pain like every little bit of friction had been causing him... yesterday? Maybe? It seems too soon for him to feel this much better, but maybe Dean's got him on meds.

"Yeah, I'm sure," would sound a lot more convincing if he wasn't grunting his way through it. "Just trying to figure out how to pull them in."

It doesn't exactly hurt, it's just... strange. Like having a whole new set of arms to deal with except he doesn't know how to work them. It seems to help a little if he's looking at them while he tries, since the left one slowly inches inward, away from the wall. Of course, it's all undone almost immediately when Dean scoots up the bed and straddles Sam's hips to try to catch hold of it.

"Shit, Sam!" Dean yells as he’s nearly dragged right back off of Sam’s body by the flailing appendage.

"Sorry, you surprised me!" Both wings flutter agitatedly, swirling up a fine coating of dust off of the floor that sets them both coughing for a moment.

"Ok, let's just... let's just calm down ok?" his brother says scratchily, clearing his throat. The timbre of Dean's voice is probably supposed to be soothing, but mostly just makes it sound like he's trying to talk a wendigo out of eating him. With Sam being the wendigo. Feel the not-soothed.

His brother's strong fingers start kneading slow circles along the back of Sam's neck, loosening the tensed muscles. He didn't even realize how sore they were still until Dean started pushing the pressure away with steady rolls of his thumbs. Slowly the tension eases, tendons pulled in strange new ways relaxing under Dean's ministrations until the wings begin to droop toward the floor, suddenly much easier to control. Sam does his best to ignore the way his stomach lurches when Dean's hips shift against his backside and the way his stomach is about half a foot north of what's lurching.

Even after the wings have come to what Sam can only assume is a resting position since it doesn't feel like everything in his back is flexing to hold them there, Dean doesn't quite stop. His grip eases to gentle, almost fluttering touches, carefully skirting around the too-hot skin he can feel at the base of each protrusion.

"You ok, kiddo?" his brother asks, quiet but a lot calmer himself than he'd sounded a few minutes ago. His fingers slide down Sam's back, out and back up over his ribs, so softly Sam finds himself shivering at the almost-tickle. The wings fluff a little at his sides, but it doesn’t seem quite like a protest.

"As much as I'm going to be," he says honestly. He'd shrug but the idea of moving his shoulders scares the shit out of him.

The heat of Dean's palm rests over the back of his neck, fingers stretching up into his hair and twining there for a second before stilling. Sam's going to blame the way he arches his skull up into it to get them moving again on whatever Dean may or may not have him doped up on. Same goes for the relieved sigh that works out of him when Dean cards through his hair again, scratching just hard enough to feel good.

"We're gonna fix this, Sammy. We'll find away."

He can only see his brother out of the corner of his eye, the details fuzzy and indistinct, but the earnestness written out all over Dean's features makes him nod anyway. They always find a way, somehow.

Sam does his damnedest to smother the whisper in the back of his mind, _always only lasts until the first time you don't._

***

Dean fights to draw in a breath, but it's no good, just ends up bursting back out of him immediately on a soundless contortion. It burns, it aches, it hurts so fucking bad and Sam's just sitting there, glaring daggers at him.

Any second now, Dean's going to quit laughing. Really, seriously, he is. Any second.

Sam chucks a pillow hard at his head when his next, supposedly calm breath ends up exploding into a guffaw again. It's just... Sam's so... he looks...

"Fluffy!" Dean chokes out, voice a couple of octaves too high as he slumps against the wall for support. If his brother could stand up right now, Dean might actually be in trouble.

The brown and grey-dappled feathers of his brother's wings rustle as Sam huffs, face so bright red he can't possibly have blood left anywhere else in his body. The plumage is still glittering with little beads of water, every quill raised in what he can only assume is some instinct to dry themselves, leaving Sam's wings puffed out to about twice their usual size. He looks like those pictures of little birds in the rain, all chubby and puffed, except for the fact that there's a scrawny, naked, pissed off teenager in the center, dripping all over the bedspread because his wet wings are too heavy to move.

Yeah, forget it, Dean's never going to stop laughing.

"It's not funny!" Sam snipes at him again after a minute, settling for kicking at the cheap rug with his too-long feet since he's out of pillows to toss. "How'm I supposed to shower?"

Kid's probably trying for angry, but it comes across as sullen and a little helpless. Dean's still giggling a bit as his eyes retrace the trail of water leading out from the bathroom, but the spike of remembered fear pretty well shuts it up. Jesus, he'd nearly killed himself running up the stairs when he heard Sam scream for him - because he was trapped in the fucking shower by his sopping-wet feathers of all things, but Dean hadn't known that at the time. Alright, maybe it's not quite so funny.

Sam could maybe fit in the bathtub and hang his wings over the sides, but with the way the tub is butted up against the wall, it'd be tricky and probably really uncomfortable. He hasn't exactly got handle on how sensitive Sam's wings are yet, but they definitely have feeling and having one hitched up at an awkward angle to scrub down is probably pretty far down on the fun list. He doubts Sam will go for that.

Mostly his brother's been opting to pretend that the damn things aren't there at all - look how well that's working out. In the three days they've been at the cabin, Sam's managed to break a lamp, a chair and some kind of little figurine that was maybe a little girl at some point but is well beyond Dean's capacity to glue back together. And he slept through the entire first day. He's also knocked over or relocated at least half of the furniture in the place by turning too fast or accidentally stretching, or, Dean's personal favorite, getting startled - apparently they react to his emotions like a dog's tail or something; no more horror movies until those suckers are gone.

Actually, Dean's surprised himself by how quickly he's gotten used to them being there. Not that he likes them or anything - there's still a mildly overwhelming sense of wrong whenever Sammy has to spread them to sit down or when Dean catches a look at him from the back and sees all the magically healed skin from where they sprouted - but they're just kind of becoming a thing. Something they have to deal with; something about Sam, which inherently negates any creep out factor there might have been - he could never be creeped out by Sammy.

And besides they're kinda pretty. Not... not, like, in a weird way or anything, and not really right now when they're doing a stuffed animal impression, just kind of, you know. They're sort of shiny along some of the edges and in the right light, he can pick up all the different hues of grey and brown and cream that make them up, the brown almost burnished gold in the sun. So, yeah, pretty, especially when Sam spreads them - which he can only really do if he's standing in the middle of the kitchen-living room combo downstairs since they're like, the whole length of Sam's body plus half again on either side - and the pattern to all of the marks and speckles shows up. And soft, they're really soft. He doesn't even need a blanket anymore when he slides into the cabin's king size bed with Sam since his brother can only sleep on his belly now, and the warm weight of his wings tends to spread out as he relaxes. It’s way better than the scratchy sheets Dean’s used to, satiny smoothness all over his skin.

But, um, yeah... They're fine. Whatever.

"Sponge baths?" he suggests, a couple of minutes too late if the way Sam huffs at him is anything to go by.

Sam rolls his eyes and his muscles go loose as if he's going to flop backward on the bed, but then he winces - probably still sore from the new added weight - and lays forward instead over his bent knees, letting out a groan that's more like a yell. It's really hard to take him seriously though; he still looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Bird.

***

Sam’s waiting irritably in the one and only chair in the whole cabin that doesn’t bend his wings funny – an armless ladderback that he has to straddle backward - when Dean finally returns. He’d said he was going for groceries but he was gone for way too long – not that Sam needed three long empty hours of confirmation to know that his brother is full of shit. Probably had to make some special secret call to Dad to report on how Sam’s doing – like he doesn’t know that they’re discussion his ‘condition’ behind his back whenever Dad checks in - and hell, knowing Dean, stopped to bang the checkout girl at the store or something.

He sets down a couple of overfull bags of groceries on the crackling linoleum counter. Sam would offer to help but he’s not allowed to go outside during the daytime, not that there’s anyone around for miles to see, so he just sits back and watches. He’s not expecting the slap of a stack of books hitting the table in front of him and ends up jumping - wings twitching outward - which just makes Dean grin. Jerk. Then Sam’s eyes connect with the title of the book on the top of the pile.

“The Care and Keeping of Birds, Dean!? I’m not a bird!”

“Yeah?” his brother quirks an eyebrow, rooting through the sacks as he starts unpacking them, “Maybe you oughta tell that to your big-ass wings.”

“Oh screw you! It’s not a joke!”

“I know it’s not a joke!" Dean slams a blue box of Kraft Dinner onto the counter hard enough that a couple of stray macaroni noodles skitter across the plastic. "Jesus! Do you know what I… You know what? Forget it. I just figured that shower thing wasn’t gonna work so maybe we should, like, find out something about wings. I thought you’d like it, research–boy."

Dean skims a hand through his hair, sticking at the back of his neck to rub at the same imaginary itch he's had going for five years now. He takes a deep breath and lets it go slow, eyes closed, head tipped down toward whatever else he's got stashed in his grocery bag. Sam's nailed hard with guilt that twists into his gut like a corkscrew. He keeps expecting to get used to the feeling.

It takes Dean a minute to start unpacking the supplies again, another after that before he mutters, "You’re supposed to preen them, in case you’re wondering.”

“You read it?”

The only answer he gets is a grunt, but he hadn't expected much better. Still, Dean's the one who offered him an opening; Sam knows his brother well enough to get how this is supposed to go. If Dean's given him an in, then he must be dying to talk about what he learned, always hungry to give Sam a chance to make it better.

“So, by preening you mean…”

“Well, birds do it with their beaks," Dean says casually, crumpling up one brown paper bag and tossing it into the trash under the sink, "but I’m betting you can’t bend that way. I guess your fingers?”

Sam thumbs through the book until he finds the page Dean’s talking about – ignoring the picture of the tiny bird with its head tucked under its wing because seriously, this is not making him any less weirded out about the whole situation – and reads through the passage about powder feathers and spreading the natural oils and tentatively sinks his hand into the plumage over his left shoulder.

He doesn’t notice Dean’s watching him until his brother asks, “What’s it like?” He’s still unpacking groceries, but his eyes keep flitting back to Sam.

“It’s,” Sam searches for words to describe the soft, slightly clinging warmth surrounding his fingers, “It’s like a scalp massage kinda, except not my head. I dunno, I can’t explain it.”

But apparently he doesn’t need to, because then Dean’s at his side getting a feel for himself. It’s not the first time Dean’s touched them – heck, with the way they spread out during the night, Dean ends up cuddling with them half the time – but it’s always been unavoidable and cursory. This time he’s got his fingers pushed all the way through the down to the thin skin beneath, lighting Sam up with the small, foreign contact.

It’s not exactly a surprise – Dean was always that kid who couldn’t just accept that the stove was hot, he had to touch it for himself – but it is weird. Rationally he knows there’s nothing wrong with the wings – aside from the fact that they are, in fact, wings – but it feels so personal, like Dean’s touching some deformity on him and it makes him want to squirm away.

His brother makes a thinking sound at the back of his throat and combs through the feathers, does it again and again and Sam can’t stop himself from sighing, even if he wants to. It feels kind of really nice.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, the teasing in his voice doing a pretty good job of covering something else that Sam can't quite put his finger on. Curiosity maybe?

Sam grumbles a "Yeah," trying not to fidget when his brother gets both hands in on the action.

A thoughtful hum is all he gets back, strong fingers pulling through feathers, against the grain at first, then back with them, smoothing them out. His touch explores to the jut of bone overlaid with slightly smaller feathers, ranges over the second joint and down the smaller stubbier bone that makes the ends spread out. Metacarpal, the little diagram on the page in front of Sam informs him. Then he shuts the book because he's not entirely sure he wants to know.

The words almost die in his throat, but he can't keep himself from asking all the same. “This doesn’t gross you out?”

“Dude, it’s you,” Dean shrugs by way of explanation.

And yeah, Sam guesses that works – Dean’s changed his diapers and wiped his nose, cleaned him up after he’s puked and sewn up his wounds so that doesn’t leave much room for him to be squeamish about Sam’s body. He really can't think up a good reason for that thought to make his dick decide to sit up and pay attention so he’s just going to pretend that’s not happening – he’s had enough practice at it by now.

Dean’s fingers work through the layers, following the way they get smaller and smaller as they move in toward Sam’s back until suddenly he’s tickling along the main joint, bare skin meeting between Sam’s shoulder blades and he hasn’t got a prayer of holding back his gasp. He can feel Dean flinch, but his brother doesn’t pull his hand away, just hesitantly asks, “Hurt?”

“No,” Sam answers unsteadily, doing his best not to wriggle, “Just tender, kinda.”

It's true, if not the whole truth. The skin feels brand new, which he guesses it kind of is, like when his foot will go to sleep from being scrunched up in the Impala at the wrong angle and every touch is both numb and overloaded. It's weirdly sensitive, just this side of painful so all Sam keeps getting is that bizarre 'too much' signal from his body. But Dean's being gentle, careful, mapping out the whole area with his fingertips like it's essential that he memorize the terrain.

He plots out the space on the underside, stealing Sam's breath for a moment when his brain can't make sense out of the input it's getting, mental TV static. After a second Dean moves on, tracing along the feathers on the inside of the wing before coming back around and petting over the backs again. Sam can only hope his brother doesn't ask him anything out of the book, because it is suddenly much more valuable as something to cover his crotch with.

***

Dean pushes his fingers in deep through the feathers again – there are all kinds of technical names for the different ones, but he can’t really remember them right now – down until the tips meet warm skin. It’s a trippy feeling, silky little feathers and stiff, slim quills and this weird, not-exactly damp feeling of the oil that’s supposed to keep them clean and neat. A soft noise ekes out of Sam but he doesn’t tense up and he’d said it didn’t hurt, so Dean doesn’t stop.

Dean’s always had kind of a thing about touching, he’ll admit that, but a big part of it’s always been about Sam. The kid’s so damn responsive, always has been. When he was little, the easiest way to keep him from crying was to keep a hand on him, just some little touch so he’d know he wasn’t alone. That’s probably the thing out of all the bitchy teenage bullshit that gets under Dean’s skin the most; he could handle the attitude and the fights and the little comments, but the way that Sam just can’t seem to stand to be touched anymore, that’s what makes him crazy. It’s so much worse than when Sam tells him to leave him alone, because pulling away makes it seem like he means it, like he really doesn’t want Dean around him.

But not right now. Now he just sits there and makes that little sound again while his wings spread out like permission, giving Dean more room to work.

He hadn’t gotten a chance the really read through the whole passage in the book, but he’s pretty sure he got the gist, combing the oil down through the feathers, spreading it around in small circles with his fingertips, straightening out any stray or misturned feathers. It’s not like Sam would be able to reach these on the back anyway, especially not the ones close to his body, so Dean’s really just getting a jump on doing it. Not, like, obsessing over the way it feels or anything.

He has to get on his knees to get to the lower layers, sinking to the floor with the heat that radiates off of Sam’s back warming his skin. Here some of the feathers are more messed up, probably from how they dragged the ground those first couple of days before Sam’s muscles got strong enough to hold them up properly. Dean’s still pointedly not thinking about how fast Sam’s body seems to be adapting to the new additions, mainly because he’s grown very fond over the years of not hyperventilating like a little schoolgirl. If Dad says he’s onto something, then he’s onto something and this will all be over with soon. In the meantime, he just has to stay calm and get these stupid feathers to fall in the right places.

“Ow! Watch it!” Sam jerks as Dean tries to arrange a stubborn ruffle of feathers, and a small, tawny bit of fluff comes free in his hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes immediately, soothing over the spot with gentle fingers, a small dot of wetness against one fingertip where a tiny drop of blood forms in place of the plucked feather. Before he even thinks about it, he’s leaning in to press a kiss to the space between Sam’s shoulder blades.

It’s the same thing he used to do when Sam was little whenever he’d have to wrestle the kid down and brush his hair. Sammy was always tender-headed, all those baby-fine waves that would get kinked up around each other. Sam would whine and whine that Dean was hurting him and then turn around and snivel and burrow into Dean’s arms afterward so Dean could kiss all over the silky, hopeless mess – so blonde back then; nobody used to doubt that they were brothers - and ‘make it better’. He’d always thought Sammy would want to get his hair cut short as soon as he could but the kid’s kept it long, probably just to piss Dad off; that damn obstinate streak of his.

Dean’s not really sure how long he’s been sitting here with a grin pressed up against Sam’s skin.

With a shake of his head that doesn't do nearly enough to clear it, he says the first thing that pops into his mind to distract him, get him away from wherever his brain was going with all of that nonsense. “Do you think you could fly?”

Instantly he regrets saying it, the mental image of Sam taking a giant leap and spreading his wings out, disappearing up into the sky makes Dean want to clamp his arms around his brother’s middle and anchor him on the spot.

Sam just huffs though, something like a laugh and mutters, “With my luck they’d probably fall off as soon as I got up in the air.”

Dean actually feels the thought hit his brother, can all but see the gears turning as he sits up straighter, muscles twitching, ready to go tense and then Dean really does sling his arms around that too-skinny waist, using the leverage of his position to pull Sam back down when he brother makes to stand.

“No! Do not even think about it,” he growls against Sam's neck, another, far worse image of Sam sprawled out on the forest floor bleeding, arms and legs at unnatural angles, replacing the first in his mind. And like hell Sam wouldn't do it too; go fucking try to fly just to get rid of the damn things. No point in both of them getting killed because, fuck no, no way would Dean ever let Sam take that plunge by himself.

Sam struggles for a second, just one, rebelling like a reflex just because Dean told him not to - because he's fucking fifteen and how could he possibly be wrong? Dickwad. With obvious reluctance, he relaxes back into Dean's hold. He gives another huff, sullen now, and Dean doesn't need to see the pout of his lip to know it’s bitchface number five he's wearing.

“Lame. I finally grow wings and you still won’t let me jump off the roof.”

Dean laughs a little, only a tiny edge of hysteria creeping in - and doesn't even think about letting go just in case - he has played this game before - warm feathers and awkward juts of bone digging against his chest.

***

Sponge baths are the worst things ever. The end. No matter how long he takes or how thorough he is, Sam never really feels clean. That’s the worst part of the whole situation though, which, considering that Sam has completely unnatural bird wings sticking out from his back, he guesses he ought to be grateful for the relative level of comfort. Being shirtless all the time is still weird, but it’s Dean so it’s not exactly like Sam’s got a lot that his brother hasn’t seen a zillion times and there’s no real choice to the matter anyway. It makes everything a little more awkward, each little contact seeming like a bigger deal than it is because it’s all bare skin, but still, it could be a lot worse.

Summers usually and uniformly suck for Sam; without school he’s got no leverage to protest about his Dad moving them into a new motel every week, a new town in their tail lights before Sam’s even had a chance to memorize anyone’s names. Not that he gets much a chance to get to know anyone anyway since most of the time he ends up being Dad’s research bitch or else doing weapons practice with Dean. It’s different now, here, and not just because they’re standing still for once.

He’s heard all of the clichés about growing up in each other’s pockets and it’s as true for them as it’s not. As kids, yeah, they were practically conjoined – one part Sam’s hero worship, tagging along behind his brother everywhere he went and another part Dean’s inherent protectiveness, never wanting to let Sam out of his sight.

It honestly hadn’t been an issue because even though Dean was older, the playing field was level, they were both kids. Then Dean hit puberty and rocketed through all of these things that Sam couldn’t even fathom let alone keep up with. Dean wasn’t a little boy anymore; couldn’t be the playmate and best – only – friend Sam had always known because he was ‘too big for that stuff now’. By the time Sam had started going through the same thing, Dean was already over it, punching out of puberty on the other side just as Sam was getting his feet wet. It seemed so unfair that the only good thing Sam could ever remember having in his life had to be taken away too, all because of the few stupid years between them.

He can’t even put it all on Dean either, because once the hormones started raging, Sam was the one pulling away, even if it was for their own good. The feelings he has – he refuses to put a name on them, terrified to make them real that way – aren’t the kind he’s supposed to get, but it isn’t like he doesn’t understand why. Dean’s been everything for him, always; brother, father, friend, protector. It’s not entirely a shock that some lunatic part of his brain would latch onto that stability and love, try to twist one more label out of it.

The only solution, he thought, - the only cheap, ineffectual balm for this wound; not a cure, but something to take away the symptoms - was to get some space for himself, open up to new possibilities, let someone else – someone he’s not related to – fill up that misguided space within him. Easier said than done when his life is a set of rotating names and faces, Dad and Dean the only constants. And yet, as much as he knew he needed that distance, he’s hated it right from the get go. Hated that he had to turn his back and say no when Dean wanted to watch a movie or hang out instead of hitting a bar for once, couldn’t allow himself the comfort he’d always found in simple contact or talking about his problems with his brother because these are things Dean should never know. Dad and the hunts and girls and school had already put so much room in between them and Sam had forced himself to wedge another little bit in there, aching every time.

But here, for once, it’s just the two of them, nothing in the way, nowhere to go, and even if Sam’s knows he shouldn’t, he’s got a good excuse not to hold Dean at arm’s length. He needs Dean’s help, to go into town and get supplies, to deal with Dad and his erratic, vague updates, to reach the parts of his wings and his back that he can’t get at when he needs to be cleaned up. It's a terrible idea because it's not going to make anything easier down the road, but Sam feels better this way than he has in a long time.

That doesn't mean it's not strange.

They're both pretty clearly aware that things are different here, and Sam guesses he’d assumed that Dean had picked up on the whole distancing thing before, it just never really occurred to him that his brother would react like this to it being gone.

Dean's clingy. Like, very. Not quite to the point where Sam can say anything about it, because there's always a reason, but still. His hands seem to land on Sam all the time - not even like he's doing it intentionally, more like their drawn to some Sam-centric gravitational pull. And yeah, Dean's checking on him and taking care of him - making sure he doesn't actually try to jump off the roof, even though it probably really would work, knowing the way Sam's life works - but he's always right there in Sam's space. Ok, true, the cabin only technically has the three rooms - including the bathroom - so there wouldn’t be a lot of privacy in the cards regardless but Dean totally shadows him anyway.

Then there's the preening thing. Dean's developed some kind of obsession about it, insists on doing it at least every other day – even though it usually works out to be every day when his brother 'gets caught up' rearranging one feather and starts running his fingers through them. Sam's not actually trying all that hard to dissuade him either. It feels good, the preening, the touching, the attention.

Dean's always paid attention to him, mother-henned him to freaking death nearly, but it's different like this, being the sole focus, not for learning or to correct him, but just for physical care. He remembers the feeling from being a lot smaller, turning toward it like a flower seeking the sun. But now it's all mixed in the touching and the alien new sensory information he gets that ends up flooding to place it shouldn’t, giving him ideas.

The thin skin under his feathers is bizarre but also susceptible to pleasure in the weirdest possible way. The flesh around the main joints is even worse - better - so sensitive it's almost overwhelming when he feels the warm pressure of Dean's fingers there. He actually came in his pants once from it - and thank God he leaned how to get off quietly years ago or else that would have been awkward central.

So far, he's managed to control himself since then, but his body remembers and it's none too happy about holding back, especially since he barely has time to take care of matters privately with Dean hovering all the time. The last thing he needs is to explain to his brother why he's spending so much time in the bathroom without the shower for an excuse; there is nothing but conversations he doesn't want to have in that bag of tricks.

So Sam goes on, lets the days pass; relaxes into it like a warm bath and pretends, just for a while, like he doesn’t realize that one way or another, this is going to end badly.

***

There are a few very stark downsides to having the vast majority of your sexual education come from the 4 minute porn previews in cheap motel rooms, and one of those downsides is, apparently, you develop a fucking dirty mouth. It’s a pain in the ass really; Dean would love to be able to shut the hell up and jack it like a normal person, but it’s like he’s got this mental block or something and if his mouth isn’t running, he can’t get there.

It’s always ridiculous crap, exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to hear in some scripted $2-a-view flick with cheesy synthesizer in the background; all ‘yeah baby’ and ‘make me come’ and ‘fuck you so hard’ which, for what it’s worth, actually works with chicks. It’s kinda creepy when it’s just his hand though, and more than kinda creepy when he’s lying in bed with his little brother while he’s spouting it.

Sammy’s used to it by now, is even over the phase where he felt compelled to give Dean hell about it – helped that about that time in his life, Sam started coming in his shorts in the middle of the night so he didn’t have a lot of leverage – and now he pretty much ignores it when Dean starts mumbling filth to the drag of his own fist.

Next to him, Sam shifts in his sleep and the wing moves right along with him, silky feathers dragging over the wet head of Dean's cock while a whuff of the body-warm air trapped between them washes over him. It smells thickly of both of them - night sweat, and summer heat and the thick smell of solo-sex - but more so of Sam; that heavy, slightly musky scent that a couple of years ago edged out the baby-soft aroma Dean grew up with. It's heady like this, much, much stronger than the way Sam smells normally; rich and earthy and ever so slightly dirty, driving his mind back forcefully to nights falling into motel beds with his ass practically numb from days-long drives, looping his arms around his little brother's body and burying his face in the shade of Sam's hair even though they're both grungy and in desperate need of a scrub down.

It shouldn't make him even harder, shouldn't make him want to feel the softness of Sam's waves twining through his fingers right this second. It shouldn't remind him how Sam's feathers are even impossibly softer and how easy it would be to rub up against them. Shouldn’t but it does, and he's letting the head drag back and forth through soft plumage before he even realizes that's what he's about to do.

"Pervert," Sam grumbles, soft but close enough to nearly send Dean into cardiac arrest. His eyes are just barely slitted open, still sleep hazy across the pillowcase, but not angry or disgusted. It's just a jab, just like they take at each other all the time, and he hasn't got a clue how close to the mark he's hitting.

Still, it's better if Dean plays along, plays his part. "Hey, man, it's molesting me."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, wing freak," Sam sighs, not awake enough to put in the effort to fake sounding pissed.

Dean feels the soft brush of Sam's leg against the outside of his own as his brother hikes it a little higher on the mattress, feels the bed gently rock as he starts rubbing himself against it. And it's not like Dean can blame him, he's sitting here with his own – if anything, _more_ interested - dick in his hand and he does vividly remember what it was like to be fifteen. And it's not exactly like Sam can turn over and jerk off with the wings and all. Not that Dean wants him to, because then he'd see Sam's hard-on and that's not something he wants. At all. Really.

The soft scrape of Sam’s hand skating up the sheets grabs his attention. The kid’s fingers have gotten so long, spidery but strong, tiny little nicks of scars along the length of them from knives and hot, spent casings. They clench, going bloodless white at the edges as they grip at the bottom sheet, probably looking for traction. Not finding it, they skid a little and this quiet, frustrated grunt comes out of Sam that he doesn’t even seem to be aware of, eye shut tight as he rocks down slowly.

So fast it’s a shock, Sam’s wings flex, extending out as far as the walls will allow, firm pinions xylophoning briefly over the tip of Dean’s cock before it slots back into the feathers deep, tip resting against the soft inner skin. Sam loses another sound and all of a sudden his hand is settling on Dean’s shoulder, hanging on to him for leverage. His palm is sweat-damp, clinging just a bit to Dean’s skin, so hot it feels like fire kissing his skin.

Dean’s own is flying over his shaft, short jerky movements that make the crown drag along downy afterfeathers, little bits of fluff clinging ticklishly to the precome slicking up the slit. He’s burning up between the heat of Sam’s hand and his wing and the warm, musky scent of him all over the place, the feel of his breath ghosting against Dean’s neck. Dean’s voice is rough in his own ears, breaking up like thin ice in the sun. He’s babbling something that he hopes to God is nonsense about "Fill you up, make you take it," and Sam’s muttering “yeah, yes, yes,” and the inside of Dean’s skin is tingling from it.

His whole body is tightening up, skin shrinking a size all on its own. It’s like he’s burning alive on the inside but his flesh has been smeared with menthol, prickling-cool with every tiny bit of sensation. Adrenalin riding him so hard he can barely see straight.

Sam’s hand clutches at him, warm lines of pain bursting in the wake of blunt fingernails, and Dean can tell it’s just hard enough to leave tracks for later. He hears his brother hiss out something that never really turns into a word and rolls his head to the side just in time to watch Sam’s mouth make the switch from nibbling on his own flushed lips to hanging open on a silent moan, all the bright, slick pink inside catching the light.

Somewhere between blowing his wad spectacularly all over the inside of Sam’s wing and remembering how his lungs work well enough to actually suck in some air, it hits Dean like a sledgehammer how really, really badly they need to get rid of this damn curse. Because this, right here? Looking at Sammy across the space of six inches of heated breath and shared pillow, with his wings spread out all over Dean, warm and soft and so full of the mixed-up scent of home and sex, dawn light catching on the random blond strands in his hair and turning them gold? It makes Dean ache for things he doesn’t even believe in, things his mother promised him back when he was little enough to have faith in them just because she said so.

Because if there really were such things as angels, there’s not a fucking one of them that could hold a candle to his little brother right now. And that is the scariest damn thing Dean’s ever had to feel.

***

There’s no real way to clean up Sam’s wing but to wash it, which Dean does with a washcloth soaked under the tap even though Sam keeps telling him it would be easier to just stick the one wing under the showerhead for a second.

Dean ignores him and keeps right on with what he’s doing; down on his knees on the bathroom floor, gently rubbing the wet cloth over each individual feather again and again until the come un-sticks and wipes away. It’s the same meticulous care he gives to guns and knives and the Impala and practically nothing else in the whole world. Sam stands there and fidgets as he tries to convince his dick that there’s nothing about that thought that’s even remotely hot as hell.

It’s a pointless battle, he supposes, because his body might be stupid, but it's also self-aware; it knows the feeling of Dean messing with his feathers, remembers how well that can turn out. His wet boxers are molded to his skin, making every little twitch obvious through semi-transparent fabric because being fifteen, like everything else about his existence, sucks metaphorical balls and he can get it up again at the drop of a hat.

It would help if ‘on his knees’ hadn’t recently become some kind of default position for Dean, of which Sam’s cock thoroughly approves. Or if it wasn’t Dean’s come that’s getting cleaned off of Sam – which should reasonably be really sick and instead is just kind of scorching for reasons Sam can’t begin to understand. Or if the inside of his wing didn’t feel like that when Dean’s fingers accidentally brush over it – like the crook of his elbow or the inside of his thigh or that soft little patch of skin just above the nest of dark curls around his dick. Or if his brain wasn’t all too ready to supply the sense memory of what it felt like when it wasn’t Dean’s fingers that were rubbing at his wing but something much thicker and wetter and – God help him – sexier. Or if maybe, just maybe, absolutely everything about his brother didn’t make him think about boning like a big pervy pervert.

But it does and his dick jumps, thinking really hard about _getting_ really hard again, and Dean sees. Sam knows Dean sees because, for one, he’s eye-level with it and it’s sort of hard to miss, and for two, as soon as it happens, his brother’s gaze gets stuck right there. All of a sudden Sam feels like a bug pinned to a specimen board, except it’s dark green eyes instead of steel holding him in place. His wings twitch fitfully, snapping Dean’s rapt attention – which is not doing anything at all to discourage Sam from chubbing up – back to them for a second. His brother blinks a couple of times like he can’t remember what’s going on, then shoots a look up at Sam that’s almost a smirk but doesn’t quite make it.

“Probably outta take those off. Gonna get gross.” He flicks another glance between Sam’s legs where he’s obviously more than a little interested. Even more obviously when his cock jerks like it needs to wave hello.

Dean doesn’t make a move to actually pull down Sam’s underwear, just hovers close enough that Sam can feel the whisper of breath on his hip. It’s almost like a dare and almost like something else he doesn’t quite understand, but he can’t really say no, not without explaining why – and just no, _not ever_ is that going to happen. So with fingers that keep wanting to tremble on him, Sam drags the sticky cotton down until it slips free to pool around his ankles, rush of air on wet skin making him gasp.

Being naked in front of Dean shouldn’t be that big of a deal, he keeps telling himself. Hell, his brother had helped pull him out of the shower a week ago so it’s not like there’s anything going on there that’s gonna be a newsflash. And they did just get off less than a foot from each other – Dean’s cleaning his own come off of Sam’s body! – so being kinda, sorta, almost all the way hard with Dean’s gaze all over him like sticky fingers shouldn’t be such a big thing. It all probably qualifies under Dean’s ‘it’s not gross because it’s you’ policy anyway but… just but.

The touch of the washcloth to his throbbing-hot shaft makes him startle, wings flapping, unsettled, sending dust bunnies running to the corners for cover.

“Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, “Cold.”

“Oh, right.” Dean nods back, something just a little glazed in his expression. He leans in a little closer – leans his _face_ in a little closer to Sam’s _dick_ – crinkle of wiry hair brushing against Dean’s cheek when he looks up one more time, eyes locked on Sam’s, and Sam has just enough time to realize the reason his chest is burning is because he’s been holding his breath for who knows how long before the air all punches out of him as Dean’s tongue flashes out and laps at the base of his cock.

If it weren’t for his arm reflexively shooting out to catch himself on Dean’s shoulder, Sam’s fairly certain he would have crumpled just then, knees not so much turning to mush as flat out disappearing on him. Dean’s hands clamp around his hips, helping him keep his balance as his wings shift restlessly against the wall no matter how hard he tries to make them stay still. His brother is still right there with his lips all soft-looking and full and parted just a little bit, just _breathing_ onto the slowly drying come all over Sam’s cock.

God, Dean’s tasted it, Dean knows what it tastes like and that just shouldn’t be hot but it is; so much so that Sam feels like he’s going to crawl right out of his skin because it’s too much, it’s too good. And maybe Dean gets that because then he’s doing it again, quick, soft laps at Sam’s stiff flesh, tiny kitten-licks that are going to make him lose his freaking mind.

He’s not really sure when he gets a hand on the back of Dean’s head, isn’t even aware of it at all until his fingers tighten there at the top where the hair’s a little longer and Dean gives up this moan that vibrates straight into the shaft. He switches fast to these sucking, open-mouth kisses all the way up the length, punctuated with hard swirls of tongue. It’s the most beautiful, insane thing Sam’s ever felt; the first time he’s ever had somebody’s mouth on him and it’s his big brother’s which shouldn’t make it better but does. It _does_. It’s so good.

Dean’s hand, big and rough in the perfect way, wraps around the base, holding him steady and working him at the same time, rhythmic squeezes like he’s going to milk the come right out and Sam’s body seems to be on board with that plan. The swipe of Dean’s tongue around the head, dipping beneath to clean up the underside, nearly kills Sam. Like flat out, honest to God, almost murders him with pleasure and that’s all before Dean starts talking.

It’s the same crap he always says, except for how it’s not. All “yeah baby,” and “c’mon,” and “come so hard for me,” but it gets mixed up with “such a good boy, my good boy,” and “my baby boy,” and “love you so much.” Sam’s wings are curving in and around and he’s not even sure how they’re doing it but he can feel them, tips sliding up and out so that they cross against Dean’s back, pulling him in closer to Sam the same way he can feel his brother’s breath hitch – hot-cold rush - when the feathers touch his skin. Dean shudders and makes this noise like something maybe kind of important inside him just broke loose and he’s shoving his face against Sam’s hip, burying it there as he teeth dig in hard and brutal at the crease of his thigh. And Sam’s just gone, one hand hanging onto Dean’s hair for dear life, forcing him to stay right where he is as his vision sparks at the edges and he pumps gobs of white heat all over his brother’s hand and shoulder and chest.

Dean looks up at him from the feathered cradle of Sam’s wings with something that feels like worship and Sam lets his own eyes close to savor it as the aftershocks rock his body.

***

They avoid each other for most of the rest of the day, as much Dean’s fault as Sam’s. He just can’t seem to make himself sit around and watch the same three fuzzy satellite channels and talk shit when all he keeps thinking about is leaning back against the bathroom door after he shooed Sam downstairs and licking his little brother’s come off of his skin.

He spends his afternoon outside, splitting a mess of chopped logs that have been stacked out back since they got here. It’s fast approaching mid-summer, so it’s not like they need a fire, but at least it gives him something to do that’ll maybe wear his body out before he has to go back inside and face Sammy.

The problem is, Dean knows himself too well to pretend that it’s all going to end here. This wasn’t the first time he’s ever thought of Sam while getting off. Before he’s always managed to keep it reasonably impersonal; keep the thoughts focused on a tight hole and a warm, familiar body and pretty pink lips. Now he’s had an actual, literal taste, gotten his hand on Sam’s dick and seen what he looks like when he comes apart because of nothing but Dean.

There’s no way he’ll ever be able to get enough space back between them to get over that; probably couldn’t even if there was a whole fucking continent keeping them apart, let alone when they’re going to go right on sharing motels rooms and benchseats and beds. He’s going to want it, want more, want it all, and he’ll do everything he can to push it down and push it away until it’s all he sees every time he looks at Sam, and crawling into bed behind him every night is his own personal hell.

Sam’s too observant not to see it and too damn pushy just to let it go once he notices something’s up and Dean’s too damn stupid not to get drunk some night and go aiming for another round. One way or another, it’ll all come out and Sam will either crawl into his lap – out of some messed up want Dean’s forced on him or some fucked sense of obligation - and doom them both forever or else tell Dean he’s sick and wrong and how he hates him. Until then, it’s not going to end, so forgive Dean for not being too excited about going inside and getting the show on the road.

When the steady strain of his arms and the shunk of wood splitting doesn’t do a damn thing to make him quit wondering what it would be like to make Sam sit on his face and get his tongue up in that tight little body, Dean packs it in and wanders off into the trees to jack himself to the thought of Sam blowing a wad all over his face.

It’s not even close to over.

***

The hot pulse of the bruise is still there, even days later when the shape of Dean’s teeth on his skin turns from purple to yellow, a steady throb at the junction of hip and thigh like a beacon for the attention that Dean’s not paying to it. They haven’t said a word about it, not either of them, and while sitting around ignoring it is like running a cheesegrater over raw nerves, Sam figures it might still be better than listening to his brother give him a speech about how it’s wrong and bad and not ever going to happen again.

Maybe.

Ok, maybe not.

He still catches Dean looking at him sometimes and the preening… well it gets intense. Sam’s kind of surprised they’ve both made it through it twice a day – because the book says some birds do it twice a day and apparently Dean has suddenly decided that listening to books is super damn important – without it ending in either sex or fratricide. Or both. Honestly, at this point he’d settle for either if it would make this weird, forced-normalcy go away.

He has to say something, Sam’s decided, has to _do_ something because pretending isn't going to change what happened and Dean's kidding himself if he thinks so. Trouble is, what the hell does he say?

"Dean," he starts and already he can tell there's too much in it, giving everything away with a single word. The stiffened line of Dean's shoulders says so just as clearly as Sam's own gut. Dean doesn't turn around from his fourth attempt at making a pie crust - Sam would totally give him crap about it except they're barely speaking - rolling out the dough with more force than seems strictly necessary.

"Sam," is the only reply he gets, warning dripping from every letter. And goddamnit, it’s so freaking _Dean_ to refuse to talk about this. Because why would anyone want to talk about things that could actually, like, affect the entire trajectory of their life? Especially when there's important shit to do like _totally failing at making pie_!

"You've got to be kidding me!" Sam snaps because he can't keep it in. He's been hanging onto it for days, getting hard every two seconds because his hormones suck and Dean's always there being Dean and he can't help himself. His wings rustle agitatedly and for the first time ever Sam actually likes the things - right now he'll take every mode of expression he can get.

"No, Sam!" Dean barks back and Sam's not stupid enough to think it's an answer about the kidding thing. The glare he shoots over his shoulder is green fire; Sam can feel the heat of it rippling across his skin. There's flour and little gobs of dough all over Dean’s fingers and the front of the dark green shirt that matches his eyes, fabric clinging a little bit to the curve of his back where the oven is keeping the kitchen blazing hot. There's a powdery white smudge on his cheek, spread down to the very edge of his lip that Sam wants to lick more than anything in the world.

He actually takes a step forward - not even meaning to, just does it - and Dean flinches back like he never does when they're sparring and Sam's coming at him with a knife. It hits him harder than he would have ever expected, a sharp, sick roll like his organs are trying to turn themselves inside out all at once. It seeps into his bones, marrow-deep, clammy-cold for a moment before turning branding-iron hot. The room sways and Sam's head throbs like his brain is literally swelling and compressing with every beat of his heart.

About the time he careens helplessly sideways as the floor spins beneath him, it occurs to him that this might be more than a reaction to rejection.

His next, "Dean," might not even really come out - he can't hear one way or the other over the harsh metallic buzzing in his ears and he can't focus his eyes on more than the melting whirl of colors that he thinks is his brother to tell if he reacts. He feels a pain in his hip that would probably be bracing if he wasn't currently redefining pain as the hot sizzle from his bones creeps steadily toward his back, centering around his spine.

There are a series of small, low-grade explosions along his side and he can only guess that he's fallen in the brief instant before the sickening snap he heard resolves itself into bright, silver agony.

***

"Sam? Sam!" Dean can hear himself repeating his brother's name on a loop and can't remember a single other fucking word in the whole English language to add to it.

The bubbled linoleum floor digs painfully against his knees but he barely registers it. Or anything else outside of the twitching, screaming body in his arms. The wing above him flails wildly, beating at Dean's back and leaving dull, stinging marks that will be black and blue later, feather's raining down around him like flurries of dirt and ash.

The only thing he can think through the impotent panic is that screaming is good - screaming means Sam's still breathing.

The left wing is stretched out at an impossible angle, flailing against the ground like a fish dumped on dry land. Sam's whole body spasms with each motion. His eyes have rolled far enough back in his skull that all Dean can make out is a waning-moon sliver of hazel at the top, but he's obviously still semi-conscious, though Dean can't begin to guess how.

He can't get up, not with the one wing beating at him and the other obviously dislocated, only Dean's strength keeping Sam from collapsing onto it completely and doing further damage. He can't do anything, not one fucking thing and he wonders wildly if he died in his sleep and this is hell, trapped forever with Sammy injured in his arms, powerless to help him.

His gut churns at the sound of another wet pop, the bile thick in his throat threatening to spill over when the right wing collapses on top of him, a dead, seizing weight. Sam voice cracks with it, the next rush of air from a would-be scream colliding humidly with Dean's neck, soundless but for the high noise of oxygen rushing from Sam's tight throat.

The clamorous ring of the old phone on the wall bursts into the silence at a heart-stopping level. Dean wants to ignore it, can't leave Sam, but the sound taps into something even deeper in him – Dad. Dad’s the only one who’d be calling, Dad will know what to do, Dad can help, Dad will save Sammy.

As gently as he can and still not nearly gently enough, Dean maneuvers Sam onto his belly, wings hanging limply from his back like puppets with their strings cut.

When his hand hits the oxidized yellow of the receiver, he's shaking so hard he can't actually hold it, ends up knocking it out of the cradle and collapsing to the floor in front of it to hear his father's voice.

"Something happened! Something's wrong! Sammy..." Dean clasps his arms tightly around himself a fruitless attempt to quell the trembling as he babbles. He can't bear to look at Sam and can't look away; still thrashing and quaking with silent screams that Dean hears with his soul, feathers dropping all around his forlorn, drooping wings like autumn leaves. The sun highlights him through the window above the sink, a mocking square of bright warmth where Dean's whole world is collapsing in on itself. He doesn't have a word for what's happening to Sam, just ends up repeating the only part that really matters. "Sammy."

"Dean!" comes across the line, sharp, an order that kicks Dean's brain back into gear, makes him pay attention to the gruff tone that all of his hopes are pinned on. "It's going to be alright, son. I found a ritual to kill the wings."

"But they're _on Sam_!" he bites back, voice high and desperate but still furious.

"Still?" his father responds, too solemn to be a proper question.

Dean's eyes fly over his brother like he really has to check. Sam's breathing has evened out a little but from the look on his sweaty, tear-stained face and the erratic jump of his limbs, he'd probably still be crying out if there was any voice left in him. The wings lay over him glumly, no apparent life of their own now but still very much attached. At the very base Dean can see where the joints have dislocated, rounded protrusion of bone stark under stretched-white skin. His gag reflex spasms.

"Yeah." It's a whisper, more effort going into the nod Dad can't see.

There's a rasp, a mental image of his father scrubbing a hand over weeks’ worth of stubble coming with it. "Then you'll have to take them off."

 _No. No. Won't. Can't. Sam!_ His mind rails, the horror of it scraping at his insides with razor claws. What his mouth says is, "How?"

Dad breathes a heavy sigh and gives him a "Dean," that says _shape up_ , and _be a man_ and _do what you have to do_. His mind flashes on the carefully honed hunting knife in his duffle. His breakfast spills out all over the floor.

***

Sam's swimming. It's warm and dark; he must be somewhere deep, he thinks. He swam in a lake like this once, except it wasn't warm, it was freezing and his teeth were chattering by the time Dean dragged him back to the surface. He's always liked to swim underwater, see how long he can hold his breath, enjoy the silence and the weightlessness, the ease, but Dean doesn't like him to do it, always wants Sam somewhere that he can keep an eye out and make sure he's safe. He wonders why Dean isn't pulling him out now.

Every now and then his back will hurt from swimming too hard and he has to just float in the dark and wait for it to get better before he can start moving again, flying through the blackness. Sometimes his mouth opens up and he feels water splash in for him to swallow. Sometimes he thinks it’s whiskey instead but that's stupid, he couldn't swim in a lake full of whiskey. Although Dean would probably like to try.

He laughs to himself in the dark and wishes Dean was here so he could tell him about his idea for the whiskey lake. Or maybe beer, Dean would like that even better. Maybe a beer lake with a whiskey river, then they'd have it all covered. Sam laughs again, glad that he can breathe in this lake. It would be a pain to have to keep going up for air. Now if he could just remember where he left Dean everything would be perfect.

***

Dean has never once questioned an order. He’s never fought against what his father says or wondered for a single moment if it wasn’t what was best for all of them. Dean is the good soldier, the good son, and his faith does not waver.

The first thing Dean does when John Winchester walks through the front door of the cabin is knock the sonofabitch flat on his ass.

The scent of blood is still fresh on his fingers no matter how hard he tries to scrub it off, so the new spill of it from his own skin hardly matters. His knuckles ache and at least one of them is definitely broken, and he has never given less of an actual fuck.

His father stares up at him, dumbstruck, eye already starting to swell as Dean grabs the bag of medical supplies – doesn’t ask where he got intravenous antibiotics or any of the rest of it – and goes back upstairs to take care of his baby brother.

***

The fact that the first thing Dean says when Sam opens his eyes is, "Hey kiddo," all forced-cheerful over a layer of exhaustion, seriously ups the chances that Sam's in the process of dying. Again. He’s getting really sick of waking up this way.

“Wha’ h’ppen?” Sam’s throat aches, tongue too big in his mouth, thick and unwieldy. He’s been on painkillers often enough to recognize the sensation of some seriously good shit rushing through his veins. There’s a muted, constant burn all over his back that says to count himself lucky for whatever’s knocking around in his system. He doesn’t realize he’s trying to move his wings until his brother’s hand settles on his shoulder to still him.

Dean hesitates for just a second before answering, “Dad broke the spell.” He’s smiling, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.

“They’re gone,” Sam says, not really a question, but Dean nods anyway.

It's dark, nighttime, though he hasn't got a clue which night that might be. Indigo light fades to black farther out from the bed, swallowed up in flat, empty midnight at the mouth of the stairs. Sam’s sprawled out in the middle of the bed on his belly yet again with Dean sitting up at the head of it, his back braced against the wall, one of Sam’s arms flopped carelessly over his legs. There’s a book in Dean's hand that he keeps thumbing at the edge of, top corner of the pages turning blunt under the constant friction. It's way too dark to read, which means he must have just been watching over Sam for however long it's been since the sun went down. Sam’s not really sure how to feel about that.

“Where?” He asks after a minute, tugging a little on his brother’s jeans to get his warmth scooting closer.

Dean moves slowly, shimmying down a bit so Sam’s arm is laying across his belly instead, hand limply feeling out the beat of his heart. The smile is finally there in his eyes, even if it looks kind of like a frown too when he brushes the hair back from Sam’s forehead.

“There were signs of an angry spirit on the other side of the state line so he had to…” Dean never gets around to finishing, just lets it trail off on one of the dozen variations of the excuse they both know by heart. People in danger, things to be hunted. He’d known as much anyway; his father’s never been Mr. Bedside Manner.

“I meant th’ wings.”

Dean startles at the soft sound of his voice, the pulse underneath Sam's fingers picking up.

“Oh! Oh, uh, salt and burn. You know, just in case.” It doesn’t escape his notice that Dean doesn’t say who did that salting and burning. Sam hopes it was their father; Dean really seemed to like the wings, burning them would have probably upset him.

Sam presses his face against his brother’s side, breathing in the scent of him all mixed in with blood and betadine. That too, is way too familiar.

Dean's hand strokes through his hair gently, the warmth and the comfort of that small touch threatening to let sleep come swallow him up again.

"You're gonna be ok, kid," his brother says quietly. Sam just nods, knowing it's true for the first time in weeks and not actually feeling any better because of it.

When he braces his hand against Dean's chest and pulls himself another couple of inches up the bed, there's a small sting like stitches trying to pull free from skin. He hadn't gotten as far as thinking about that; about how exactly the wings came off - his memories are mercifully vague beyond a constant barrage of pain. The look on Dean's face says there's more to it than that, though, and sometime when they're farther down the line from this, Sam's going to find out what that is. For the moment, he's got - limited, painful - use of all of his limbs and that takes care of the most pressing worry, so he settles his head against Dean's shoulder and fights to breathe through the flaring ache in his back until it settles again.

His brother is looking at him from too close up, air between them thick with the smell of their bodies and antiseptic, a distilled perfume of their whole lives. Sam’s breath presses against Dean's skin and bounces back at him, familiar and thrilling as the way Dean's hand settles on the back of his neck. He wants to say something like, "Let me," or "Please," but it doesn't come. Doesn't need to either, because Dean's head cocks to fit their mouths together naturally when Sam moves in for it. The touch is soft and electric, instantly right, like something he's spent his whole life doing.

Sam doesn't hesitate to push his tongue against the seam of Dean's lips, to let it slide inside even though he's been sleeping for who knows how long and his breath is rank, because that hand is still there on the back of his neck and he knows Dean wants it. For whatever reason, whatever he missed, Dean's not fighting him now. Won't fight him now. Sam hasn’t got the strength to do anything but melt for it and just let it happen.

***

Sam shivers against the blanket as Dean runs his tongue over the rough-smooth of healed skin, uneven under his mouth on a slow, wet kiss. It still kind of bugs him that Sam has to live with the slightly jagged marks because Dean couldn’t quite get them neat and even from the way the skin was broken. A year down the road since they came off, but whatever it was that made the spots so sensitive when the wings were attached has never really worn away. Dean’s not about to admit how much he likes that. Just like he doesn’t admit to the little bundle of brown and grey feathers neatly rolled inside of his duffle, even though he’s pretty sure Sam knows. There are things that don’t need saying.

He mouths his way up the other side of Sam’s spine as well, earning a trickling moan this time and a little roll of the hips trapped underneath his own. He loves this part, maybe as much as the sex even, teasing and touching until Sam’s protections all fall away and all the things he tries to hold back are all laid bare for Dean, just as much as his body.

The tang of sweat is sharp on his skin, moisture gathering in the dip of his spine, the shallow just above the firm swell of his ass. Sam has always been beautiful, even at his most awkward, but this last year has done him right. He’s filled out through the shoulders, emphasizing his slim waist – still too skinny, needs to eat more than friggin’ rabbit food – with the lean jut of muscles that keep springing up every which way. A body made for a museum and Sam still acts like it’s something to be ashamed of, still covers it all with baggy tees and layers and jeans that barely hang on to his hips. And Dean will never say this either, but he loves that too; that even looking like he does, Sam’s still Sammy and only Dean gets to know how truly sweet that is.

He’s got his brother spread out on an old, worn blanket from the trunk, the homey smell of gun oil and salt hovering around them like the shimmer of heat on a desert highway, the grass underneath slightly lumpy but soft. The darkness paints his skin, that coppery tan Dean can never match overlaid with blue.

Time alone like this is a commodity, nowhere to be, no case to worry about, no fear that Dad could come barging through the motel door any minute. He’d scouted this spot out earlier in the week when he figured out they’d still be here by tonight – down a web of back roads, out in the middle of this deserted little clearing. Nothing but them, the soft chirrup of crickets and the stars overhead. It’s chick-flicky as hell, but Dean had wanted to do something special for tonight.

But he’s still not fucking calling it their anniversary, no matter what Sam says.

His brother gasps, though whether it’s from what he’s doing with the two fingers Dean’s got twisted up inside of Sam, massaging around – but never quite on – that perfect spot, or the soft nips he’s laying over the knobby scar tissue on Sam’s back, it’s hard to say.

“Dean, please,” Sam whines and that already says something about how far gone he is. Dean pushes his ring finger in with the other two, slipping easily past the well-worked furl. He has no idea how long they’ve been at it so far, but the ache in his balls says it’s way too long and the way Sam’s body just spreads for him, muscles surrendering, says his brother’s plenty ready. Nonetheless, he skirts his pinkie around the rim, corkscrews _just so_ to hit right where Sam wants it just to watch his brother twitch and bite his pretty, kiss-swollen lip.

“Dean,” Sam repeats, scrubbing his cheek against the blanket. It would take a stronger man than Dean to resist a plea like that.

He pulls back enough to snag the lube and get the fingers of his free hand coated slick, Sam whining wordlessly from the other one still inside of him, wriggling like that’s going to get him what he wants. Dean lets him, enjoying the show as he works his own cock to a glossy shine. If there’s ever been anything hotter than Sam desperate and writhing on Dean’s fingertips… well, it would be Sam desperate and writhing on Dean’s cock. And after that? Nothing. Period. The planet would combust if it got any hotter than that.

He gets another, “Dean!” this time a snap of it over Sam’s shoulder, dark ravenous eyes on him. This whole fucking his baby brother thing really hasn’t done much to discourage Dean from doing his best to get on Sam’s nerves, not when it gets him that same look, a little flashback porno to replay in his head as they motor down the road to their next case. That, and Sam all riled up and pushy is pretty much sexy as hell.

“I gotcha, I gotcha,” he placates with a roll of his eyes. Like he’s not feeling each lube-slippery stroke along his cock in every goddamn fiber of his being. “Bossy little bitch.”

Sam’s, “Jerk,” crumbles to pieces as Dean sets the swollen head of his cock to Sam’s puffy rim. He pushes just a bit to feel how easy the muscle gives way, the feeble clench more like it’s sucking at him than trying to keep him out. Oh fucking hell, Sam’ll never let him live it down if he loses it this fast.

For what it’s worth, how close he is isn’t all a failing of Dean’s stamina – although fuck if getting Sammy split open around him doesn’t play havoc with that too. There’s also the little fact that this is kind of a first for them both.

Dean’s had safety drilled into his head from the first day he ever let his eyes slip down from a girls face to her tits. He’s never fucked anybody bare before, refused to risk Sam until he was absolutely, 110% sure that he was clean, and it’s maybe just a little bit bigger deal in the here and now than he thought it would be.

But Sam is an impatient fucker – in both senses of the phrase – and while Dean pauses to savor the moment – to save some fucking face before he blows it – Sammy gets fed up and shoves back, sheathing Dean all the way to the hilt in one smooth stroke. The tremulous way he gasps says he maybe didn’t intend to take quite that much at once, but he’s so wide open by now and Dean’s slotted in deep from it.

This right here is heaven. Fuck fluffy clouds and harps and pearly gates, Dean’ll take this, the tender, clutching heat of his brother’s body, any day of the week, even if he’s going to hell for it.

It’s hard with his instincts screaming at him to pound in hard and fast, but for Sam he can force himself to be gentle. Stiltedly, his brother settles back down flat on his stomach against their makeshift mattress. Letting Dean press him flat. He works in a slow roll, more grinding into Sam than really fucking, but he can feel that he’s rubbing up against just the right spot from the way his brother’s breath catches each time. For a quiet fuck, it’s amazing how much Sam tells him.

The strain of Sam’s muscles as he cranes his head back to offer up a kiss reverberates through his entire body, a tantalizing, satin grasp around Dean that makes him shudder and moan out a, “Baby.”

For some reason Dean’s never going to really get, Sammy pretends he doesn’t like the things Dean calls him in the heat of it. Sure, sometimes it’s kind of girly and if Dean said most of it any other time, he’d be embarrassed as hell about it himself, but he doesn’t see much point in Sam playing like it doesn’t get to him when Dean whispers, “My baby boy,” against his ear when Dean’s so far up in him he can feel every shiver. It’s good enough incentive, as far as he’s concerned, not to try and stop. And maybe to call the kid that in public a little more, because not much nails him where it counts more than watching Sam flush and go hard in the middle of a diner in Hometown, USA.

He captures Sam’s lips sloppily, the angle fucked on it but still too good to turn down. Always too good to turn down. It’s probably a good thing for both of them that Dean’s the tease instead of Sam because if it was the other way round, their secret would have been out by day one. There’s probably not ever going to be a time when resisting Sammy is going to be a reasonable possibility for him.

Their rhythm is steadily turning faster, Dean‘s hips pulling back a fraction so he can plunge in and out of Sam properly, Sammy arching under him with one leg crooked up at his side to let Dean fuck in as deep as possible. He’s rutting just a little against the blanket, not bad enough for Dean to call him on it. He’s better about it than he used to be - a couple of weeks riding Dean backward, hands trapped so he could learn to come on nothing but Dean’s cock pretty well broke him of that insistence that he needed more to get there – so Dean can’t begrudge him a bit of friction. He loves it when Sam comes any which way, he just loves it most when Sam comes from him and only him.

That familiar heat coils low in his gut, wraps around the base of his spine like silk and razor-wire, slowly heating.

“That’s it, baby,” he hears himself pant, punched out around sucking kisses and nibbles at whatever bit of skin he can reach. “So good. So good for me, my sweet boy. Gonna fill you up, baby boy, get you all slick and messy on the inside. Gonna come so hard. Make you love it. Make you wanna be wet from me all the time.”

Sam gives up a library-whisper of a groan and nods, clutches at the hand Dean’s got splayed out beside his head.

There’s just enough space between them for his amulet to bump fitfully from Sam’s skin to his own and back again, horns catch-dragging on scar tissue to make Sam hiss and drive back into the next thrust. Dean gets his free hand into the game too, fingering at the shiny, uneven flesh. Under him, Sammy chokes on air, fingers digging in harder at Dean’s and clawing trenches into the dirt through the blanket.

“Like that, don’t you baby boy?” he moans into the back of Sam’s neck as the channel around him tightens, trying to draw out the growing ember of heat in the pit of his belly. “Gonna come for me? Gonna let me hear you scream my name?” He strokes the backs of his knuckles up the line of one scar, down the other, pounding in hard a couple of times when Sammy clamps tight around him, so close even Dean can feel it. “My angel. Pretty little angel, just for me. Love you so much, baby.”

“Dean!” coughs out of Sam, barely even a breath, let alone a scream, but it all means the same. It’s all I love you too, just like every time Sam’s ever said it.

The way Sam loses it is a fucking masterpiece, mouth open and eyes closed, hair curling with sweat and sticking out crazily. All spasms and shakes like his body just can’t handle how good it feels. Dean knows the feeling.

When Sam’s body goes into lockdown – clench-release, clench-release all around him – it’s too much to take, orgasm literally milked out of him, straight from his soul. Dean manages to collapse down and get in a handful of rough, feverish thrusts before he’s over the edge too, pawing at Sam, world hazing out at the corners of his vision.

Coming inside of his brother is some kind of revelation – his own wet heat making everything even smoother, slicker, as it floods back around him, coating the shaft. Without a second thought he’s got one hand wedging under Sam’s sticky belly because it seems like he should be able to feel the difference from the outside, how full Sammy is now. A little ‘this is what it’s supposed to feel like’ lightbulb flickers on over Dean’s head and he hopes to God his brother liked it too because they are damn well doing that again sometime soon.

“Fuck,” Sam sighs, completely pliant underneath Dean. All he can do is nod slightly where his cheek is pressed to Sam’s shoulder and hum his agreement.

Carefully he pulls out, Sam hardly flinching as the soft length slips free so Dean can crash down beside him, snug against his brother’s side. When he looks at Sam’s face, though, it’s scrunched up unhappily, hips moving fitfully.

“Dude, I have to lay in the wet spot and _be_ the wet spot, how is that fair?”

The pout of his lip isn’t really cured at all by Dean’s sudden compulsion to get a hand back between his brother’s legs to feel the slow leak of his come drizzling down over Sam’s balls. Fuck. The way he sucks that plump bottom lip into his mouth seems to help though, going by the soft, pleased sound Sam makes against him. It’s even better when he gets a firm grip and drags his brother half on top of him, leaving the sticky splotch of come cooling on the blanket empty. That one earns him a smile.

“Ya done whining now?” he asks, most of the heat in it wiped away by bone-deep satisfaction.

“We’ll see,” Sam answers ominously, but he’s burrowing his face into Dean’s neck at the same time.

Dean’s hand finds the curve of Sam’s ass naturally, the other coming to rest over one of the wing scars. Warm, ticklish breaths press against hi throat along with small kisses he’s not sure he’s meant to feel. Sam gets like that sometimes after, vulnerable and sort of shy now that all of his barriers are down. It’s one of Dean’s favorite things in the whole world.

They come down together slowly, heartbeats and breath evening out into that space between sleeping and really being awake. Soon they’ll have to head back – Dad will start to wonder where they are eventually – but for now, this is alright; just the two of them and the stars and the screech of a nighthawk carried on the summer wind from somewhere in the distance.

**The End**

 _If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down._ \-- Ray Bradbury


End file.
